


The Day after Endgame

by sageness



Category: DCU
Genre: Canon - Comics, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-30
Updated: 2004-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:38:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick & Tim post-War Games & Identity Crisis.</p><p>The pain woke him, pain like fire through his thigh. He must've been trying to shift, to roll over maybe, into the weight lying next to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day after Endgame

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to __fallen and Fromward for kind audiencing and helpful suggestions!

  


The pain woke him, pain like fire through his thigh. He must've been trying to shift, to roll over maybe, into the weight lying next to him.

But...weight? What the hell? That yanked Dick fully out of the haze of subsiding painkiller and surging bolts of—Jesus-mind-numbing-_ow_, and back into the present.

He was out of the clinic and back in his childhood bed at the Manor. His old, big, four-poster bed, like a less ornate version of Bruce's. And Tim was lying beside him, fast asleep, with tears slipping down his cheeks. The worst part was, he was on the wrong side. Dick couldn't roll toward him without screaming in agony and probably ripping apart half a dozen more-or-less essential sutures.

He could see the edge of a gray t-shirt under the blanket that covered Tim. Alfred must've done it, since Tim wasn't under the comforter with him. Tim probably hadn't wanted to disturb him—as if Dick would've noticed anything through his zonked out narcotic dreams; but he was awake now, and his leg was killing him, and Tim was in his bed, and he could see sharp lines of daylight cutting in around the drapes. Alfred had taken the clock away. He remembered that. Or a dream about it. There'd been an argument about getting back out there to help. He couldn't remember much of it, but apparently Alfred had won. And that meant his leg was at least as bad as it felt. Probably worse.

Dick reached out and brushed a tear from Tim's cheek with his thumb. It woke him, of course. He might even have been faking the sleep, the little freak...but this was weird, even for him. He hadn't seen Tim cry in a while. Course he hadn't exactly been around much lately, what with getting his life systematically torn apart back in the 'Haven.

He didn't ask, "What are you doing here?" That was more than obvious. He didn't know what else to say, though, so he tried on a weak smile over the grimace of pain that felt permanently etched on his face. But Tim only looked away.

Tim wasn't saying anything, was swallowing hard, obviously shoving it all back in, back down, down to where he could pretend it didn't exist, to the place where he hid how much he missed his mom and his car and goofing around with the YJ kids, back when they were just kids and still had some semblance of innocence. Back before the world went completely to hell.

"C'mere," Dick said, as he raked his hand through Tim's hair and pulled him in, wrapping his arms around him. The tears came, and sobs wracked the boy's body.

A little later Dick said, "Here, climb under," and pulled the sheet back. Tim crawled in, curled up against Dick's shoulder, and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Moments later, Alfred was moving silently across the room, bearing a tray of chicken soup, juice, and three orange bottles of prescription medicine. "So, Alfie," Dick murmured, after guiding Tim's head from his chest to the other pillow, "what'd I miss?"

Alfred's gaze passed over Tim's face, and then he bowed his head.


End file.
